He's the Hero
by PorcelanaRota
Summary: His usual grin sat upon his lips as the usual excuse fell from them, and as usual, no one saw the tightness around his eyes, as if fighting back tears. No one saw the way he gripped his ribs, as if in pain. No one saw, no one noticed, because he was the hero, and heroes don't bleed. One-shot
1. He's the Hero

**A/N**

 **The song used is "Superman" by Five for Fighting. The word count is 1,477. I might add on to this or make it into a series of drabbles, but I'm not sure :/ so for now its labeled as complete.**

 **I own neither the song nor Hetalia.**

 **Edit: 15 October 2015: Due to copyright issues, I had to remove the lyrics. So you'll just have to imagine "Superman" lyrics between every few paragraphs or play the song while you read or some stupid thing like that. Sorry :(**

 **Enjoy! :)**

* * *

The meeting had started, and Alfred was late, as usual. There were times when he was on time, of course, and even early, Queen knows why, but Alfred was most often late. Whether it was to piss the nations off or so the bloody git could pick up some Mickey D's, Arthur would never know. But that idiot would always come running in through the door, anywhere between five and twenty minutes late, making some comment about being the hero before rambunctiously taking his seat.

It was curious, how the nation claimed heroism so often. There had to be done reason behind it, yes? He can remember young, clear blue eyes looking up at him with such admiration it made him feel invincible, a childlike voice pleading, "Tell me a story." Arthur always gave in, and he told his favored colony of princesses and their knights in shining armor, of quests taken up by brave men to do things for the better good, and of kind mythical creatures that would help out along the way.

Maybe that is why Alfred is so obsessed, or maybe it's for another reason entirely. Maybe Alfred just feels the need to protect, like Arthur had felt the need to go and venture out across oceans despite many sea monsters to go and see two blue-eyed colonies that meant the world to him. Maybe there's a maybe, and maybe there isn't. Either way, fifteen minutes into Germany's speech, a blue-eyed, blonde nation with a cowlick fondly called Nantucket burst into the conference room, enthusiastically calling out, "Don't worry, the hero has arrived! The hero just had some awesome heroic duties to attend to."

Arthur rolled his eyes, as did many other nations, and Alfred took his seat in hasty excitement. His usual grin sat upon his lips as the usual excuse fell from them, and as usual, no one saw the tightness around his eyes, as if fighting back tears. No one saw the way he gripped his ribs, as if in pain. No one saw, no one noticed, because he was the hero, and heroes don't bleed.

~~~30 minutes earlier~~~

He whistled as he walked from his hotel, his hands in his jacket pockets. He had just left, and was moving to the World Meeting (it was being held in Germany this month). He was in no rush, and knew that if he continued on, he'd get there on time, maybe even early. It shouldn't give anyone a heart attack, he was known to be on time every once in awhile. If it happened more than two consecutive times, however, people would worry. They wouldn't have to, though, because he's the hero. (Even though his economy is total crap right now. He could feel the need to just eat something, anything, but it wouldn't do any good with the slight economic depression he was going through. His people are starving. But that doesn't matter: He's the hero. He'd be fine.)

It may have left him a bit weaker, but he was as strong as ever! No one could take him down, because he's America! (He's Alfred F. Jones, too, though.)

He walked past an alleyway, still whistling his merry tune, when he heard it; a whimper. He discreetly glanced in, an eyebrow raised behind his glasses, and saw two figures in the darkness. One was clearly a man, and the other, a woman. The man was holding her against the bricks, demanding for money in German.

"Please," the woman pleaded, in a language that Alfred understood as Korean, "I do not know what you are saying."

Alfred clenched his fists, angry at the scene, and marched in. He pulled the German off the woman quickly, growling in German, "What do you think you are doing?"

The man, either brave or stupid, growled back, "Mind your own business, dummkopf! Go crawl back into whatever hell-hole you came from, ja?"

Alfred gave the man a cruel smirk, one that he usually reserved for the commie bastard, and said, "My friend, I am the bringer of hell, ja?" The man paled, and in a sense of 'I don't feel like dying today!' he punched Alfred in the gut. Alfred winced instantly, his country's current position not being helpful to him in this moment, and he threw the man against the other wall with all his strength. The man was knocked out before he knew what hit him.

Alfred turned back to the woman, a kind and gentle smile now on his face. He said to her in Korean, "Are you okay now, ma'am?" The woman blushed and nodded shakily, still upset over what just happened. "Good," Alfred said, pulling out his phone, "I will call the authorities now, alright?" The woman nodded again, and asked for Alfred to stay until they arrived. "Of course," he replied, the phone ringing.

It took merely a minute or two for German police to get there, and they loaded the man (who was now awakening) into the cruiser. The woman, Hana, refused to be driven to the hospital to be checked out, and said she would get home on her own. She thanked Alfred profusely, unable to express her thanks just once, and he accepted it with a laugh of how it was nothing, that anyone would have done it. He his his winces of pain, certain that his ribs were bruised, but he didn't speak up. It would be... unheroic.

Then he left for the meeting, knowing he'd be late by at least ten minutes. The entire fiasco was five minutes, plus an extra minute waiting for the police, and two minutes explaining it all and being a translator for the woman and police. Hah, ten minutes late. More like fifteen.

It wasn't like this was the first time this has happened. In fact, him being unable to resist his hero complex is why he was usually late, not that he'd let the nations know that. He isn't she why he didn't want them to know, but it always felt weird, whenever he thought about telling the truth. Besides, its not like saying "the hero" every five seconds is far off: Today, he was a hero. He was a hero to a woman in a foreign country in a dark alley. He didn't need anyone's approval on his heroism. He knew what he was, but sometimes, he wishes that the others knew it, too.

So he walked to the meeting, knowing that there would be scoffs and harsh comments, despite having just done what he did, despite having pulled many of them from their own messes, and it didn't bother him (much). He was ready to be a carefree fool, he was ready to not have to worry about those people like Hana that he's saved, or their cold, dead eyes if he got there late. (He just wanted to forget, sometimes.)

Call him a dreamer, if you will, because of his need to be the hero, but he loves it. (Again; despite their cold, dead eyes that sometimes haunt him at night, scaring him awake and torturing all day with questions like, "Why didn't you save me sooner?") He'd do anything to save an innocent, anything. (One day, it will be his downfall. Let it never be said that America did nothing.)

He throws open the doors to the conference room, giving his stupid and usual excuse. Germany tells him to take a seat, and Alfred barely keeps himself from telling everyone why he really was late when he sees Arthur and Mattie roll their eyes, but he remembers that he's the hero and he doesn't need to tell the truth to feel good about himself. He sits down between Britain and Lithuania, his hand dancing around his wounded ribs, waiting for the perfect time to start to sprout off nonsense.

Lithuania, bless the boy, slid a note over to Alfred. He scanned over the words that asked, "Mr. America, are you alright? You're nursing your ribs as if you've been injured." Alfred grinned at his friend, a bit solemnly, comforted that at least someone noticed. His grin grew wider when he realized that if he wanted the nations to know why he was always late, this would be the time to come clean.

"How many times have I asked you to call me Alfred, Toris," he whispered, and suddenly his mouth did the opposite of what he wanted, "Besides, I'm fine. I'm the hero, after all!"

Alfred sighed when Lithuania accepted this with an uneasy look, biting his lip. He perked up, however, before anyone could notice. He pulled on his usual idiotic grin, already forming his upcoming hero speech in his mind that would involve a giant superhero fueled on hamburgers.

He was fine. He's _The Hero_ , you know, and heroes don't bleed.

(Much.)


	2. Brothers

**A/N**

 **So clearly I've decided to continue these one-shots, though this particular shot doesn't involve heroism... well, not until the bottom half, anyway, but that's a surprise/late Christmas present :)**

 **I'm sorry for any mistakes in this shot. My laptop broke and I have to type this up on my tablet (that I got for Christmas, yay!), which does not allow me to use line-breaks (ugh). So you'll have to settle for three consecutive "~" okay?**

 **Anyway, my headcanon for the NA twins is that Mattie is oldest, because wow I really wanna see some OverProtective!BigBrother!Canada. So yeah, the idea sounds amazing to me :) . Like, did you know that Canada declared war on Japan after the attacks on Pearl Harbor before the US did? I'm telling you, that's definitely over protective, big brother Mattie right there.**

 **Enjoy!**

"Bonjour! You've reached the voice mail of Matthew Williams. I'll try to get back to your call as soon as I have time, okay? Please leave a message after the beep!"

 _Beep!_

"H... Hey, Mattie! I know you won't let me come over today"- _or the next several days, you never do_ -"but I just... I just wanted to say... happy birthday. Happy birthday and I love you, Mattie. Good... goodbye."

He ended the call, choking back a sob, and wiped away the hot tears that ran down his face. His chest heaved, his lungs struggling to keep enough oxygen in his body so he wouldn't hyperventilate. His brother never did like this week, never did like the upcoming day.

Today was Canada Day; the day that Canada peacefully gained independence from Britain-the day that Mattie got freedom from Artie. And in three days, Alfred would be celebrating his birthday, when he forcefully took his independence. When he cut ties with Britain. When he cut ties with Mattie.

Mattie. Mattie, who had never forgiven Alfred for it, even if Artie had long ago.

"It's okay, Alfred." Warm arms wrapped around him and brought him into their chest; Arthur. "France said he'd talk to your brother."

"He says that every year, Arthur"-no use of Artie? Of Iggy?-"and every year, nothing changes. Mattie still ignores me."

Britain sighed at the truth in his former colony's words. It was never him that has held a grudge over America's Revolutionary War, but Matthew. The boy had taken that Alfred didn't want to be brothers, not that Alfred wanted independence.

"Maybe things will be different," Arthur offers, hope in his voice, but for all the wrong reasons.

"No!" Alfred stood, tears in his eyes and desperation on his face. He whirled around to face a shocked Britain. "Things aren't ever going to change, Arthur! This time of year, Matthew hates me!" His voice lowered, and his arms swung. "Don't you understand?" His voice was now a whisper: "Mattie hates me." With this admittance, Alfred's shoulders slumped and he fell to his knees, collapsing in sobs. "He hates me. Why does he hate me...?"

Arthur rushed to hold his little brother, rocking him back and forth. "That's not true, Alfred," he scolded, his throat dry from the pure despair he heard in his baby brother's voice. "You know it isn't."

"What I know and what I feel are two different things," Alfred said between sobs, "and right now, that's how I feel."

Arthur felt tears in his own eyes.

Hours later, when Alfred had finally fallen asleep, Arthur called France. It didn't even ring once before the line was picked up.

"Bonjour, mon ami," the cheer that was usually present in the Frenchman' voice was gone, replaced with a tired somberness that spoke he knew what the call was about.

"France," he whispered, not even thinking to complain about the other man's "frog language" as he commonly did, "any luck?"

"Non. Is there ever? My Mathieu is a stubborn one." There was a chuckle in his voice, but it was empty and mirthless.

Arthur sighed, thinking back to the tears shed today. "Alfred can't continue on like this," he muttered. "Neither can Mark. Holding a grudge for over two-hundred years is... unhealthy."

France echoed the sigh, "His name is Matthew, Arthur. Matthew."

"That's what I said!" he snapped, then paused to check if Alfred was woken up by his loud voice. "That's it; I'm coming over tomorrow. It's ridiculous that we've let this continue on for so long, anyway."

"What?" France questioned. "What are you going to tell Alfred?"

"That I've got an emergency back home and that I'll be back the next day, of course," Arthur said, already breaking out his laptop to purchase a plane ticket to Canada.

"Okay," France rolled his eyes from his place at Matthew's house. "Then what are you going to tell young Mathieu?"

"The truth, Francis," he said, searching for the soonest flight. One would take off tomorrow at ten o' clock. "I'll tell him that he needs to stop having a temper-tantrum and that he's making his brother feel like he hates him."

France gasped, "Alfred thinks what?"

"I reacted the same way," Arthur said. "You see why this has gone too far now, right?"

"Oui, I'm afraid so."

Arthur walked up the steps of Mark's (or was it Matthew's?) home, having directly at the wooden oak door. He cleared his throat, raised his fist, and knocked. It took merely a call of "Just a second!" before the door was opened and a face identical to Alfred's was there, with Francis behind him.

"Oh, hello, Arthur," Matthew said, surprised. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, um"-Francis quickly mouthed the name 'Matthew'-"Matthew, I couldn't come yesterday to say happy birthday to you, so I thought I'd come today."

Matthew gave him a suspicious look and said, "You've never done that before." "Yes, well," Arthur started nervously, pulling at his collar. "Francis called me last week and chewed me out, telling me that it was an awful thing to do." His looked changed from nervous to accusatory. "You know, ignoring someone on their birthday.

Matthew's own expression went from suspicious to dark faster than a track runner could ever hope to run, and his grip on the door tightened. "Well, thanks for stopping by, England," he grit from his teeth, a strained and forced smile on his face, "But you should go, Francis and I were about to head out." He then made a move to shove the door shut in Arthur's face, but Francis put his foot between the door and the pane before he could.

"Now, mon petit Mathieu," Francis started, yanking the door open and gesturing for Arthur to get in quickly. He shut the door as soon and Arthur was in, and then blocked the way for Matthew to leave. "We've been meaning to have a talk with you about your little brother."

Matthew's gaze became betrayed as he turned to face France. "You're on his side?" he hissed out scathingly.

"Oui, I'm afraid so." Francis nodded. "This has gone on long enough, Mathieu."

"You can't just keep resenting your brother, Matthew," Arthur put in.

"Why not? He left us. He's the one who resented first! He left us, Arthur. And for what? For freedom? Independence? Please. He hates us. He hates you, me. He's the one who started this whole resenting business, okay? Not me." Matthew had turned to look at a picture of him and Alfred at a waterpark from two years ago, both smiling, and Alfred holding up a peace sign.

"Alfred never hated you, Matthew," Arthur sighed, "He was mad at me."

"Then why did he leave?" Matthew screamed out, and he jerked to look at those he considered his parents. The two jumped back a bit, startled at the tears falling from the young man's eyes. "Why did he have to leave?"

"It's what his people wanted, mon enfant, he couldn't help that," Francis cooed, moving to put his arms around him. Arthur joined in, but still asked, "Will you please come with me to America tomorrow and say happy birthday to your brother?"

"Yeah," Matthew said through a choked sob. "I-I guess."

Britain and France nearly collapsed in relief.

Finally.

"I can't go in there," Matthew stated, staring at his little brother's bedroom door.

Francis sighed, "Mathieu, you have to."

"I know I have to, but I really don't think I can.

"Matthew, child, please go straighten things out with your brother," Arthur pleaded.

"I want to," Matthew said, biting his lip. Unwanted tears flooded his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. "...Are you sure that he doesn't hate me?"

Arthur put his hand on Matthew's shoulder, who tensed at the unexpected touch from the man. Arthur was never one to be affectionate with him, ever.

"Love, both Francis and I are certain that you are Alfred's single most favorite person on this planet," he spoke, his green eyes firm and clearing believing in what he was saying.

"Oui, mon petit," Francis said, "Your freré simply adores you."

Matthew looked to the ground for a second, his eyes squeezed shut, before he looked to the door once more. He nodded firmly, and he said, "D'accord." He reached out, gripped the doorknob, and he twisted the door open. He strode into the room, completely confident, until he laid eyes upon his baby brother's still form buried beneath blankets on his bed.

He looked miserable.

Alfred's cheeks were red, puffy, and tear-stained, meaning that he fell asleep crying. His eyes had crust over them, also no doubt from crying himself to sleep. His skin was pale and sickly, making him look like he hasn't set foot outside in the last couple of days. Alfred's hair was grimy and greasy looking, showing that the boy was too depressed to even take care of his appearance. In a small moment of horror and realization, Matthew wondered when the last time Alfred ate and if he even left his room at all these past couple of days.

His confidence gone after first seeing his brother, Matthew stood in place for at least a full minute, just staring at the proof of his failure of being a good big brother to Alfred.

"I am the lowest scum to walk the face of this Earth," Matthew muttered to himself, suddenly remembering every single voice mail Alfred left to him on his birthday, and before he could talk himself out of it, he leaned over his brother and shook him awake.

"Al? C'mon, freré, wake up," he softly said, ceasing his shaking as Alfred slowly returned to the world of the living.

The man stretched and yawned, not seeing his big brother at first, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He then searched for the reason of his awakening and meet the eyes of Matthew. "M-Mattie?" he stuttered, "What-what are you doing here?" Matthew felt like utter crap as Alfred studied him, almost as if he didn't really believe he was there.

"I came to see you, of course," he started slowly, unable to look at those accusing, freedom-blue eyes of his brother's. "I'm... I'm sorry..."

"What for?" Alfred asked, "I'm the one who should be sorry... I shouldn't have-" He would have continued, but Matthew interrupted by swiftly grabbing Alfred's face to force him to look at him.

"No, don't ever say that, Alfred!" Matthew said fiercely. "I'm the one who should be sorry. I'm the one who ignored you. I'm the horrible brother. Not you. Don't ever say that, freré."

Alfred's eyes watered. "...So... you don't hate me?"

"I could never, Al. I love you so much, you're my little brother, and I'm sorry I haven't been here for you." Matthew's eyes were wide with determination hiding behind the violet, ready to convince Alfred that he was the best person ever if he had to. "I'm sorry I've been a horrible brother."

"You're not a horrible brother, Mattie," Alfred said. "You're the best brother ever. I couldn't ask for a better one."

Matthew's eyes started to water again, and seeing this, Alfred hugged him. The two began to cry in one another's arms, both so relieved that the other didn't hate him.

"I love you, Mattie."

"I love you, too, Al."

And then the two fell asleep, still hugging each other, and they wouldn't wake until morning.

Which was good, because Francis and Arthur needed to take pictures of this brotherly adorable-ness overload without waking the two brothers. Elizabeta would have a nosebleed over this, even if it wasn't yaoi and just brothers being brothers.

 **~Omake starring the awesome Prussia and his significantly less-awesome but still fairly awesome bruder, Germany, because their relationship has such potential angst I couldn't help myself~**

 _When he was the Hero_

Prussia looked at his little bruder, Germany, thinking to himself. He thought of when they had just started out, Germania having faded not long after Germany was born, and when he and Germany would play together.

He smiled, thinking back to when they'd play hide-and-seek as a part of Germany's training: Germany would have to use his senses to find his older bruder, and then he'd have to use nature to stay hidden. It was much more fun than the training Germania put Prussia through, which was rough and harsh, but Prussia didn't think he could put his kleiner bruder through digging trenches as punishment, or early morning exercises, or the constant jogging.

He thought of when he taught Germany to swim, and of his afraid the little nation had been.

"Don't let go!" Germany had screeched, his blue eyes wide in slight fear.

"I won't!" Prussia had replied with a small, comforting smile. "Not until you're ready.

That small smile was back, tucking at the corners of his mouth as he looked at his bruder, who was currently reading.

He remembers racing Germany whenever they were left the marketplace, both trying to get home first. He'd almost always let his kleiner bruder win everytime, because it'd be un-awesome not to. (Besides, it was worth losing to see that bright grin that was there because he finally beat his amazing big bruder.)

Prussia thought of when he went out to war to protect his bruder, because no one touches his kleiner bruder, not without feeling his wrath. Nobody messed with anyone that the Kingdom of Prussia-dare he say it-loves. They almost always regretted it.

Only he could mess with his bruder.

And then there was World War I.

Prussia isn't stupid. He was once the Tuetonic Order, a great military of knights. He knew that his bruder and his people were starving. His people had no jobs, no food. He just didn't think he'd listen to Hitler and his idea of-of Nazism, of all the people and all their ideas!

He couldn't help but feel that it was slightly his fault.

He remembers doing his best to take whatever pain he could of the Jews thrown into those horrid camps from World War II, to take away what his bruder might feel. He knew that it wasn't enough, though. If anything, it made things worse.

"Germany, Ludwig," Prussia had yelled. "This is going too far! You need to stop."

His bruder had merely chuckled at him, shaking his head, and said, "You are not as strong as I thought you were."

It wasn't long after that that Germany lost WWII.

Then, Prussia's lands were given to the Soviets, and there was suddenly a wall between him and his kleiner bruder.

He still can remember the screams. Not all were his.

He remembers crying for his kleiner bruder whenever Russia would threaten Germany, completely petrified that the Russian might actually do something to the one he practically raised.

And then the wall fell.

It felt surreal, like it wasn't really happening. Like he wasn't about to see his bruder for the first time in decades. He couldn't wait.

When he finally did see him, Germany was... different.

He was emotionless, cold. Prussia didn't understand how the boy who could smile so brightly was now... this stiff man who had no time for hide-and-seek anymore.

It took two weeks or so for Germany to break down and actually use his emotions when talking with Prussia, and it was all because he saw scars that shouldn't be there on his back.

"What happened to you?" Germany had choked out. Prussia had looked at him and shrugged, and then was suddenly catching the body of his kleiner bruder, who was apologizing for things that were not his fault. The main thing he remembers, however, is easily back when he was the hero. Back when he could do anything to protect Germany, to protect Ludwig. He remembers when he was the strong one, when bright blue eyes would shine with admiration when they looked upon him. He remembers that most because that was what kept him going; memories of the past.

"Gilbert?" Prussia looked up at his name, and he saw his bruder before him. Blue eyes...

"Yes, West?" He made sure to use the nickname carelessly.

"Are you... alright? You looked a bit out of it."

"Of course the awesome me is alright!" Those blue eyes were stabbing into his soul.

"Right..." Germany looked uncertain at the answer, but accepted it. (His bruder was his hero, after all. Not that he'd tell Gilbert that. Ever.)

Prussia smiled at the one who once called him hero, only wanting to cry. 'I can't protect you anymore...' he thought to himself, looking to the ceiling. 'What am I if I can't protect my baby bruder? I'm... just useless.'

He was no nation. He had no purpose. He was just... there.

He looked from the ceiling and to his bruder once more, studying the slicked back hair and blue eyes concentrated on the pages of a book. 'I can remember when I was your everything, bruder. Do you remember, too? Do you remember that you were my everything? That you still are my everything? Because I do. And it kills me inside that you might not.'


End file.
